


Naughty or Nice?

by sanguisuga



Series: Sang's Holiday Offerings [4]
Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And To All A Good Fuck, But Myc is Dirtier, But the rest is Pure Smut, Certainly, Costumes, Greg is Dirty, Happy Christmas to All, In the Beginning, M/M, My trademark, Mystrade Holiday 2018, Roleplay, Some light angst, mystrade, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 18:02:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17047982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguisuga/pseuds/sanguisuga
Summary: Our lovelorn heroes spend the month before Christmas apart. But take heart! They'll certainly make up for lost time.





	Naughty or Nice?

**Author's Note:**

> Please do comment! The muse simply lives for your thoughts!

Greg’s glasses slipped a little further down his nose as he turned his head, listening to his husband giggle breathlessly in his sleep. It wasn’t terribly unusual for Mycroft to fall asleep before he did, especially when Greg was reviewing case notes. In the beginning, Greg had tried to be considerate of Mycroft’s beauty sleep by remaining downstairs to finish his work. However, after several instances of an extremely grumpy Mycroft Holmes putting in an appearance to physically yank Greg back to bed, they had established a satisfactory arrangement.

Mycroft was willing to employ earplugs and a sleeping mask to obliterate the chance that any light or the clicking of laptop keys might wake him, and Greg tried not to shuffle around in the bed too much as he worked. They both took comfort in being together, even if one of them was unconscious at the time.

Of course, Mycroft was unaware of his propensity to mumble in his sleep, and had absolutely no idea that Greg dutifully took note of each of his ramblings. Greg leant down a bit further, half holding his breath in anticipation. Mycroft had talked about many things, a great deal of it utter nonsense, but when he giggled like _that_ , it was usually a prelude to something rather delicious. That giggle had heralded quite a few pleasant evenings once Greg had interpreted Mycroft’s particular form of dream-speak.

“Oh yes, Santa. I’ve been _terribly_ naughty.”

Greg abruptly sat up as Mycroft giggled again, biting his lip to keep his snort of laughter contained. Right. Well, there was clearly no translation needed this time. Greg clicked on the file folder labelled ‘Case File 6784’ and took note of the date and time along with the very intriguing utterance.

Setting everything aside, he turned off his bedside lamp and slid down in bed, turning to snuggle into his husband’s backside. Mycroft sighed happily and wiggled into him, and Greg did his damnedest to fall asleep while visions of a very particular set of sugarplums danced in his head.

The next evening at dinner, Mycroft broke the bad news. “You’ll be gone a whole _month_? Love, that’s ridiculous.”

Mycroft scowled, fitfully pushing his sprouts around his plate. “Believe me, nobody finds it more ridiculous than I.” He paused for a moment, tilting his head in thought. “Except perhaps Anthea, but even she must bow to our superiors’ whims.”

Greg stared down at his own plate, a faint sense of queasiness pushing at the back of his throat. He swallowed the sensation down with a hefty swig of wine, willing his chin not to wibble as he glanced up and then away. “A month... That means...”

Mycroft pushed away from the table with a low sound of desperation, crouching down next to Greg’s chair and reaching out to hold his hand in both of his. “I _will_ be home for Christmas, my dear. This I swear. If they try to keep me away, I’ll simply defect.”

Greg sputtered out a damp laugh as Mycroft brought his hand up to his lips, pressing a fervent kiss to his knuckles. “I’ll hold you to that. Pack an emergency bag in case we need to smuggle ourselves out in the middle of the night and all.”

Mycroft got to his feet with a little groan, bending over to kiss Greg’s forehead. “Let’s tidy all this away. I’m suddenly feeling an altogether different kind of hunger that simply must be satisfied.”

Greg grinned and knocked back the rest of his wine, reaching out to pinch Mycroft’s bum as he reached for his plate. With the both of them working in tandem, the work was completed in a trice, leaving them staring at each other in silence. Then Mycroft tossed the dish towel in Greg’s face and ran for the stairs, his laughter echoing through the house as he was chased down.

Much, much later, after their post-sex shower and after a bout of post-shower sex, they tangled their naked limbs together and laid in blissful silence. Mycroft burrowed into Greg’s neck as he idly traced patterns among the freckles on his shoulder, humming contentedly. Before long, Mycroft’s tuneless humming transitioned into gentle snores, and Greg continued to stroke him as his mind went round and round in circles.

Although it wasn’t exactly their first Christmas together, it was supposed to be their first as a married couple. Greg couldn’t help but think that potentially spending it apart wouldn’t bode well for the marriage as a whole. He tried to shake off the ridiculous notion, knowing that it was just a figment of his superstitious mind. Mycroft would be home for Christmas - he’d promised. Greg scratched at his chin before laying his head down, the beginnings of an idea to ensure a fantastic holiday starting to form in his brain.

The morning that Mycroft was scheduled to leave for his interminable and yet inescapable training session, Greg set aside his razor and didn’t touch it again for the full month. For the first week or so, Mycroft made no mention of it during their nightly Skype sessions, but on day ten his curiosity simply had to be assuaged.

“My dear, why on _earth_ do you look like a vagrant?”

Greg ran a hand over his cheek, smoothing down the patchy growth. He shrugged. “Ah. Well, doesn’t seem much point without you here. Thought I might give it a go.”

Mycroft’s eyes raked over Greg’s face, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly. “Very well, but if it’s still there when I return, I know precisely what I will be asking for as a Christmas present.”

Greg laughed it off, but from that night forward, he was mysteriously unable to get the video portion of their calls to work, much to Mycroft’s increasing frustration.

A few days after that, Greg went into storage and dragged out all the appropriately labelled crates, but was utterly nonplussed as how to set it all up. He knew better than most that Mycroft often liked things _just so_ , and of course he had been hoping that they’d decorate together, so the task seemed insurmountable. Fighting off the urge to go to bed and cry into Mycroft’s pillow until he passed out, Greg took a picture of the contents of the crates and texted them to Anthea with a simple caption of, _‘???’._

Two days later, a couple of workmen showed up at the door with a fresh evergreen and an extremely detailed schematic. Greg tried to help where he could, but he was very aware of the workmen discreetly fixing things behind his back. The phone call that night was boozy and rather maudlin, but Mycroft was the one who started crying first, so that was quite all right.

And in the meantime, Greg made his own enquiries where he could, ultimately deciding to just have his own suit made. Besides Mycroft appreciating the odd bit of bespoke in Greg’s wardrobe, it just made more sense. There would be no worry regarding ruining a rental, and if the venture was successful, it could be replicated whenever the whim struck.

Of course, he had to pay extra due to time constraints, but the finished product was a thing of beauty, all sumptuous red velvet and the very best faux-fur trim in pure snowy white. The proprietor took several photos for his online gallery and promised Greg a discount on his next purchase. Greg bundled it all up and scurried home, the indistinct sense of longing in the pit of his stomach slowly turning into joyful anticipation.

On Christmas Eve, Greg left every room in the house dark except for the sitting room. He sat and watched the gentle twinkle of the fairy lights on the tree, cradling his phone in his hand as he waited for Anthea’s ten-minute warning.

 

*****   *****   *****

 

Mycroft huffed with impatience as he trotted up the front steps to their townhouse, his carry-all bumping gently against his backside. What in Heaven’s name had possessed them to try and keep the entire department until Christmas Eve, and nearly midnight, too! There would definitely be words when he got back to the office, beyond the choice few that he had bestowed on the training staff this very evening. The gall of these people - almost as if they were trying to impress upon him just to whom he belonged. Well, they would learn. Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade answered to no man save himself. And his husband, of course.

He fumbled at the security lock, his eagerness to have Greg’s arms around him again making his entire body tremble. He’d had no earthly idea that it was possible to miss someone as much as he had missed this man. Especially because said man had steadfastly refused to show him his face for nearly three whole weeks. Mycroft had been forced to resort to scrolling through his vast collection of photos while they had talked on the phone. Thankfully, he had quite a few photos to reference when their conversations had taken on salacious overtones. And seeing as how those were the photos that he had reviewed - perhaps unwisely - before getting on the plane, there was already an undercurrent of arousal humming through his veins.

Mycroft slipped in, neatly shedding carry-all, overcoat, gloves, muffler and shoes in the foyer before even looking up. The house was dark, other than a faint glow coming from the sitting room. He nervously smoothed down his hair as he walked, starting to shimmy out of his suit jacket. He stopped dead in the doorway, his jacket hanging from one shoulder as he put his hand to his mouth in astonishment.

Santa Claus straightened up from where he had been arranging gifts under the tree, turning to him with an exaggerated start of surprise. “Oh! Well, hello there, young man. Caught me out, haven’t you?”

Mycroft bit his lip as he let his jacket slip off, paying no mind to where it fell. He reached up to loosen his tie as he looked his husband up and down and up again. The suit had clearly been made to fit him specifically, and every inch of it looked, well... Pettable. As did the beard, which had filled out very nicely for only a month’s growth. Greg had apparently taken appropriate care with the trimmer and beard oil, as it gleamed luxuriously in the glow of the fairy lights.

Greg’s dark eyes twinkled at him over rosy pink cheeks as he rocked back on the heels of his black motorcycle boots. Mycroft licked his lips as he ran his hands down his torso, giving his trouser pocket a reassuring pat. “Indeed, it seems I have.” His cock twitched as Greg’s grin widened, and Mycroft started towards him. “Am I in trouble, Santa?”

“Well...” Greg rumbled out a peal of hearty laughter, making Mycroft shiver where he stood. “You did neglect to leave out my milk and biscuits. Santa needs his little treats to get him through the night.”

“Oh dear.” Mycroft reached out to grab hold of the lapels of Greg’s coat, tugging him towards the sofa. “Perhaps I can offer you a different kind of treat, then.” Spinning them around, Mycroft gave Santa a shove, grinning predatorily as Greg landed with a _whoomph_. He started working the buttons on his waistcoat open as he straddled Greg’s velvet-clad thighs, shivering as his broad hands closed about his hips and yanked him closer.

“Hmm...” Greg reached up to tweak Mycroft’s nose, and he nearly lost it right there as he noticed the white leather gloves for the first time. His eyes rolled back as Greg caressed his face, tracing over the seam of his lips until he opened his mouth. Mycroft grabbed at Greg’s hand, licking at the tips of those exquisite leather gloves, taking two deep into his mouth. Greg’s laughter was a trifle strained, and he squirmed against Mycroft’s hardness between them. “Not sure if this puts you on the Naughty or the Nice list.”

Mycroft broke away with a little gasp, running his hands over the velvet and faux-fur randomly. He plucked the hat from Greg’s head and jammed it onto his own, finally reaching out to run his nails through his husband’s new beard. He slithered closer and leant in to rub his cheek over the smooth silver hair. Moaning low as leather-clad hands grabbed hold of his bum, Mycroft whispered, “I wanna be naughty,” before pulling Greg in for a healthy snog.

Relief swept up from his toes as Greg made a noise, a sort of broken-off sob that softened into little needy growls. There were a few prickles from the new overgrowth, but that was all too easy to ignore in favour of the wordless chorus of _‘missed you missed you oh God I missed you so much’_ that was echoing through both their heads.

They both panted quietly for breath as Mycroft broke away, his fingers making quick work of the thick leather belt that was holding Greg’s coat fastened. He grinned as he threw it open, plucking at the bright-red braces and following them down to the waistband of his trousers.

Mycroft heard the click of Greg’s throat as he swallowed, looking up as he popped the button and drew down the zip. “Just how naughty do you intend to be?”

Mycroft plunged his hand into his husband’s pants and grabbed hold, stroking him firmly from root to tip. He watched the tendons in Greg’s neck go taut, delighting in the shiver up his spine and in the fluttering of his dark eyelashes. He considered his words carefully, for even though Greg had helped him to unearth a deeply buried sense of whimsy and he loved to indulge it, his first instinct was still to repress any innate silliness.

But that would hardly be fair to Greg, considering all of the trouble he had gone through to make this game as authentic as possible. And so, Mycroft firmly put his tongue in his cheek as he fluttered his eyelashes beguilingly. “I want to suck on your candy cane, Santa dear.”

_“Christ.”_

Mycroft affected an innocent air as he slid down onto his knees, shedding his waistcoat before leaning in. He felt an odd tremor in his diaphragm as he nosed at the curls at the root of Greg’s cock, and he squeezed his eyes shut hard to prevent the incipient tide of tears. God, his smell, that beautiful musky spicy smell of man - of _his_ man. He’d missed it so much.

And this cock, so thick and beautifully hard, so eager for him... Mycroft traced the tip of his tongue over the prominent vein, opening his eyes wide as he took in the very tip and sucked gently. He smirked at the look on Greg’s face, but as he started to slide down, the dumbfounded expression morphed into something far more adoring and he simply had to close his eyes again. After all, this was meant to be a joyful reunion, not a tearful one.

Mycroft hummed as he worked Greg’s cock between his tongue and soft palate, moving slowly, relishing each little jump in the thigh muscles under his hands. He stroked over the velvet trousers, trying his damnedest to ignore his own cock as it throbbed with each of Greg’s soft grunts of pleasure. Not that there was any need to ignore it, of course.

Greg cursed quietly as Mycroft pulled off with a pop, his lips turning up into a foolish grin as he drew out the small packet of lube that he had stashed in his pocket. Greg snatched it from his hand, tugging one glove off with his teeth and watching with greedy eyes as Mycroft began to strip down. “Happy fucking Christmas to me, oh yes indeed.”

Mycroft shoved his discarded clothing aside with his foot, boldly standing stark-naked - except for the very fluffy hat still perched on his head - in front of his husband. He shook his head as Greg gestured him closer with two lube-coated fingers. “Did you really think that I would step foot in this house without preparing myself very thoroughly beforehand?” Greg blinked up at him gormlessly, silently running his fingers up and down his slick cock. Mycroft licked his lips as he watched, swallowing down the giggles that threatened to erupt. “Now I’m going to slide down on your North Pole, Santa dear, and you are going to take me for a nice hard ride.”

Greg’s only response was a low growl that heightened in pitch as Mycroft turned his backside on him. Insistent but gentle hands guided him to his target, holding him steady as he reached between his legs, grasping hold of Greg’s cock and aiming carefully. And then there was only that beautiful stretch as his body eagerly accommodated the gentle violation, that slight burn that he always revelled in.

Mycroft let out a soft sigh as he sank fully into Greg’s lap, wiggling against his torso. Greg placed his palm on Mycroft’s lower belly, just above his pubic bone. He pressed in hard as he pushed up with his legs, feeling out the movement of his cock deep inside his husband’s body.

He growled low in Mycroft’s ear, watching with delight as gooseflesh popped out over the back of his neck. “Fucking love that.”

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder as he shifted, squeezing down as he leant forward slightly. “Nobody has ever filled me up the way you do - it’s almost too much.” He put his hands on Greg’s knees and lifted himself up, just enough for a clear view. Mycroft bit his lip as Greg’s eyes zeroed in on the target, somehow going even darker at the sight. “See how you stretch me? You’ve absolutely ruined me.”

Mycroft squealed quietly as Greg yanked him down, pushing in deep. “Good. You’re _mine_ to ruin as I like.”

Mycroft grunted at another hard thrust, immediately bouncing on Greg’s lap for more. “Yes, yours. Fucking wreck me, show me who I belong to.”

Greg chuckled even as he obeyed, his fingers closing down on Mycroft’s hips tight enough to bruise as he moved. Mycroft clutched at the fine velvet covering Greg’s legs, struggling for any kind of leverage he could maintain while his body was jolted almost mercilessly.

He finally managed to get his feet planted firmly and started bouncing in time to Greg’s hard thrusts. He threw his head back and yelped breathlessly as one stroke targeted his prostate rather ruthlessly. He almost laughed at the outraged sputter from behind him as the puffy ball at the end of the hat smacked Santa in the face, but a spike of pure pleasure rendered him momentarily nonverbal.

And having found just the spot, Greg did it again and again, his precision unerring and enthusiasm unflaggable. His rhythm faltered only slightly the third time he was assaulted with the surprisingly heavy puffball, and he growled low as he ripped the offender from Mycroft’s head and tossed it across the room.

Mycroft rolled his hips with increasing desperation as Greg once more picked up his pace, cursing and pleading in the same breath. “Give it to me, fuck yes, so close, Santa _please_.”

Greg laughed and growled, yanking Mycroft’s body closer, wrapping his leather-clad hand around his cock, squeezing snugly. He panted in Mycroft’s ear, feeling that indefinable pressure starting to build.

“Santa’s got a pressie for you, lad.” He grunted with the effort of maintaining the pace, his thighs starting to quiver. “You ready for it?”

Mycroft’s mouth fell open as his body started to seize, and he wasn’t even able to spit out a response before Greg yanked him down hard, his cock jerking violently within. They writhed together in their shared bliss, Mycroft clenching down as his insides were flooded with heat, Greg purring in satisfaction as his glove was thoroughly despoiled.

Mycroft sagged against Greg’s heaving chest, tipping his head back and panting up at the ceiling. He smiled dopily as his husband’s arms wrapped around him, sighing at the touch of lips on his neck. “Christ, but I’ve missed you, you filthy bastard.”

Greg held him tighter, rocking their still-shivering bodies together. “Never again, love. This happens next year, you’re getting coal and nothing more.”

Mycroft growled with very little heat behind it. “If they try to pull anything like this again, I will raze the very ground upon which they stand.”

Greg hummed low, speaking through a rather impressive yawn. “There’s my precious little tyrant.”

Mycroft giggled faintly as Greg slumped sideways, taking him along for the ride until they were stretched out on the sofa together. He hummed as the red velvet coat was tucked around him, blinking hazily at the fairy lights on the tree. “So what was it?”

_“Hrm?”_

“Naughty, or Nice?”

Greg smiled into the back of his neck. “Both. Very much both.”

Mycroft wriggled as Santa dropped off to sleep, pondering just how long of a nap he could allow him before they became irrevocably glued together. He caught himself blinking through a yawn half a second later, relishing in the warmth and security of his husband at his back even as he mentally cursed the cosiness of the coat.

Smiling at the success of this venture, Mycroft started to debate how long he should wait before dream-speaking a few more hints for Greg to add to his little case file.


End file.
